


Lt Connor Anderson, resident fuck up

by cyndrat



Series: Detroit: Reverse Roles [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Android Hank Anderson, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Twins, Connor is Not Nice to himself, Depression, Gen, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hurt Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Overwhelmed Connor, Panic Attacks, Poor Connor, Role Reversal, Russian Roulette Chapter (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Tendencies, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, brief alcohol, not sure which one this is (Panic vs Anxiety attack) so tagging both, only character is Connor really, seriously Zero Comfort here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-24 19:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16646090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndrat/pseuds/cyndrat
Summary: Hank Anderson's Russian Roulette is literal. Connor Anderson's Russian Roulette is more about whether he can slog through the reports of a dozen fucked up cases and get to bed before spiraling back to self-injurious coping mechanisms.>part of "Detroit: Reverse Roles" but can stand alone<





	Lt Connor Anderson, resident fuck up

**Author's Note:**

> so (hopefully obviously) this fits in before the events of the 'Russian Roulette' chapter in the game and in "Roleswap"
> 
> ok I know like everything's in the tags up there but like. this is bad. connor is hurting mentally/emotionally, and hurts himself physically too because he has not so great coping mechanisms, then he just. starts spiralling down and going in circles and there is zero resolution to this [resolution is in "Russian Roulette" part 1 and 2 chapters] so like.  
> please please be wary if anything in the tags is a thing that may trigger you: think twice.

Connor closes the file folder with a lot more force than necessary and pushes it away. He props an elbow on the table and drops his head into his palm with a low groan. This had seemed like a halfway decent idea - a good one even - an hour and a half ago when he’d left the station, half desperate to figure something out about the whole deviancy situation to appease Fowler if nothing else. So he’d gone into the records from his terminal, pulling up everything tagged with a note about the deviancy virus or malfunction, and then he’d chosen two dozen out of almost a hundred from the last year alone.

He’s made it through seven of them. One of those says that the android in question just randomly disappeared, but all the others detail a situation in which the android had seemingly attacked the nearest human with no provocation or warning, then ran. There’s nothing else, unless the laziness the investigations had been completed with counts. Seriously, whoever had been on those cases deserves a shit ton of reprimands, maybe a suspension, because Connor is left with all the deviancy stuff shoved onto his plate and the past investigations are of no use. There’s not even a passing mention of the ‘rA9’ that had been scribbled in Ortiz’s bathroom.

Maybe it’s time for a break.

He lifts his head and drops his arm-

And isn’t it just his luck that he fucks up the angle and catches the mouth of his glass of caramel liqueur? The tall glass tips, because of-fucking-course it does, but he manages to grab it - after the alcohol starts to spill on his sweatshirt sleeve, before it has a chance to touch the stack of unopened case files.

“Fuck,” Connor mumbles, staring at the stupid glass. He’s almost tempted to say it again, to see if either of the dogs will consider the sound worth investigating and come be a soft, warm distraction, but they’re usually sleeping at this time of day unless he’s being interesting. And old, stupid case files are not interesting. He finishes what’s still in the glass and thumps it down on the table.

Screw a break, it’s time for a refill. He stands - perhaps a little quicker than he should have - and after the faint dizziness subsides, he grabs the glass and steps to the counter. The glass clinks down on the countertop and he reaches for the bottle of liqueur-

Except if he drinks much more, he’s not likely to get through many more of those files. Not unless he eats something to lessen the effect of the alcohol. He considers it for a moment, the idea of food. The idea of going into the fridge (or more likely the freezer) to find a meal shaped container sounds like work to do and work to actually eat. And the last box of granola bars he’d bought is sitting in the car.

No to food, so no to alcohol.

He leaves the glass on the counter and moves back to the table, flipping open the next case in the pile. It’s dated mid-August, and it’s got Captain Allen’s scrawling signature across the top. He gets about six lines into the actual report, gets far enough to read  _ ‘NK800’- _ and that’s where he stops, because he remembers hearing about that. The deviant had killed the father, held the kid hostage on the penthouse balcony - and CyberLife had sent a ‘negotiator’ to deal with the deviant.

Just as programmed, Hank had talked it down enough to get the kid to safety and allow the SWAT team a clear shot. He had succeeded at his mission, had been  _ effective. _

Connor can’t help the sneer that twists his face. And then they’d paired the damn android with him, and the only mission they haven’t failed had been their first, when Hank had put the information together quickly and accurately to deduce that the deviant was still hiding in the attic.

Connor hasn’t been much more than a liability since that first mission in Ortiz’s house. Since then, he’d tried to pursue an android onto the interstate where he would’ve almost certainly been hit, probably killed on impact and, if not, critically injured. He had followed Hank just earlier today, as the android followed another deviant across roofs and through a greenhouse, and all he’d earned from that pursuit was getting almost pushed off a roof then rescued by Hank, like his life was more important than figuring out what the fuck is going on with deviancy in this city.

He’s just kept on screwing up, and now that he's set beside a fucking specialized prototype investigative android, there’s no way  _ any _ of this reflects well on his capabilities.

God _damn_ he wants another drink now, wants to drown his thoughts and maybe fuck his body and mind up enough to actually get some sleep - but he has to finish this project he’d taken on by his own damn self. Either that or give up, but giving up would be adding another failure to his recently expanding list.

Connor shoves the Phillips case file across the table. The folder catches on one of the others that he’s already gone through, making a few pages slide out a little, but he could care less. He rubs his temple and takes a breath, trying to refocus on the next file. He’s shaking a bit as he opens it, and he gets halfway down the page before he takes in another breath, the air feeling like it’s rasping down his dry throat.

Water. Water is a good idea, except he’s shaking more now, and his next breath catches as his throat constricts. Fuck, he kind of wishes one of the dogs had come over to check on him as they do on occasion, because- because he’s starting to freak out and he can’t control the way his hands are shaking, even as he tries to flatten them out and press down on the table. He can’t- He can’t seem to focus, too much is happening - he's trying to breathe, trying not to shake, trying to swallow around the feeling that something’s stuck in his throat.

Anxiety attack, panic attack, what-the-fuck-ever.

Connor presses one hand to his suddenly aching chest, scrabbles with the other for the pen he’d been using. He finds it and taps it hard against the table, flips it in his fingers, trying to focus, trying to control the movement and control some of what's going on - trying not to drop it.

He hears the pen clatter to the floor, though the sound is distant . Shit. No no, he was using that to- to focus, and now there’s nothing else in reach to use to cut through everything else. Nothing in reach- But he could grab- He shoves his chair back from the table, staggers up and over to lean on the counter. There’s no ice cubes in the freezer, he can never manage to remember to refill the tray, so instead- instead all he can do is jerk a drawer open, pull out the one black handled knife he owns - all the others in the set had been an easy gift to Nines in return for the pastel coloured set that sits on the counter and lets him  _ forget _ -

It’s frightfully easy to pull the blade cover off and sink to the ground with the haze he's got between him and the rest of the world, supported by the cabinet behind his back and the cold floor under him- though it feels like the cold is seeping into his legs, numbing them even while he gasps in breath and he hears his heart beating fast to keep blood moving around his body.

He- he has to start, has to do this before his fingers numb completely and he can’t fucking do anything, because then his only chance will be dropping unconscious, leaving this really fucking sharp boning knife to fall haphazardly on the floor where his poor furry babies will step on it when they approach and try to figure out what’s wrong with him-

He hisses out a “Fuck,” that he can barely hear and sets the blade against skin, just below an old bullet wound and a few inches above his knee. The blade slides smoothly against his thigh even though his hands feel like they’re shaking too hard to even hold it and his gaze feels fuzzy around the edges. He lifts the knife before blood starts to well up and sucks in a breath that punches out of his lungs just as fast. Another then, and trembling fingers push the fabric of his shorts farther up his legs to bare more skin that's spiderwebbed with old and not-so-old scars.

The pain starts to cut through the haze after three - four? - and his chest is maybe aching a little less. But he keeps going, fingers growing steadier and he blinks down at his legs, vision clearing even though he’s gasping in breaths still. He’s starting to come down, but he can’t- he can’t convince his body to breathe properly, can’t calm enough for his heart to beat at a reasonable pace, and the cold isn’t creeping up his body any longer but it’s still fucking  _ there _ and it isn’t going away yet- He jerks the blade away from his legs, just holds it up the air for a moment and stares at the red edge of it like the sight of his own blood will magically make him relax. As if.  _ As fucking if _ , it never has before. It’s always been the pain, sharp pinpricks of it as the knife glides and bites and splits skin again and once more  _ once more… _

Connor thumps his head back against the cabinet door, counts to two while he breathes in because he’s just about in control enough to do that now, to count to two again while he breathes. Then three, then four, and he starts forcing his breath to conform to the numbers instead of the other way around.

His socked feet are cold, as are the points where his bare legs touch the floor, but the creeping chill has receded and for some reason that realization allows his heart rate to start slowing. Okay. His pulse isn’t pounding in his ears anymore, his breathing is actually fucking working, and when he opens his eyes and looks down at his hands they aren’t shaking. Fuckin hallelujah.

He stands, ignoring the wave of lightheadedness that sweeps through him because now he thinks he can get through the rest of those reports. First though, first is putting the knife down and washing up, because blood on case files is generally frowned upon. He turns, probably faster than he should, to put the knife on the counter - and the fact that he jars his elbow on the edge is a pretty good sign he turned too fast - and instead of knife meeting countertop then fingers releasing it, his hand automatically opens, letting go of the handle.

Reflexes are apparently not so great right now, or maybe it’s just a matter of moving without thinking, because when the sharp edge of the blade slips along his forearm and breaks the skin, he twists his wrist to grasp at the knife to stop it from clattering on the floor. It bangs and clacks and rings in the otherwise quiet house despite his effort, sharp sounds to accompany the sharp pain in his hand.

Connor is frozen for a long moment as he stares down. Then he gulps in a breath and carefully sets his toes on the handle of the knife, shoving it hard and not watching to see where it stops moving. It goes as far as the nearest chair, at least, probably somewhere under the table, leaving clear space beneath him.

“Oh f-fuck,” he gasps, knees abruptly buckling until he hits the floor, sort of sitting again. Also sort of starting to freak out again. That was- shit, that was really scarily close to his feet, that really fucking sharp knife, that could have been a really big problem, that- The sound hadn’t even prompted either of the dogs to come investigate, and he lets out a vaguely hysteric laugh at that realization.

He seriously can’t seem to stop fucking up and making a mess, can he? And now there’s adrenaline flooding his system at the near miss, because _that’s_ _all_ _he_ _needs_ to help go through case files. Well of course. He was anticipating getting something useful done, accomplishing something, so like usual the universe is obligated to give him multiple opportunities to fuck that plan up beyond reason until he eventually does. _And did he ever._ There’s no way he’s going to be able to focus on getting anything done, not anymore, not when his breaths are coming fast and harsh as they tear from his throat and he’s one good push away from crying.

He _is_ crying actually, the intensity of everything coming out in stupid tears. He’s so goddamn useless, can’t even get through two dozen old reports without getting overwhelmed and resorting to self-harm. And it’s obvious he didn’t even manage to snap himself out of it properly either, because he’s barely breathing through the sobs that are building in his chest and shaking his body.

God, he just wishes this would stop. Wishes he would just die or something so that he could finally break this stupid fucking cycle, because he can’t seem to avoid ending up here again and again and _again_ , on the floor covered in his own blood and tears. It got old a long time ago, and it just serves to prove how worthless he is, that he always falls back on cutting his skin open to feel something, to cut through the debilitating haze when everything is overwhelming him. Nothing ever changes - _he_ never changes.

Isn’t the point of life to grow and change and become better?

If anything, Connor’s just been sliding backwards for years, no matter what other people seem to think he’s doing. One step forward, two steps back and all that philosophical shit.

He chokes on a breath and blindly splays one hand across his leg, pressing down onto skin and scars and cuts. The fresh burst of pain grounds him for just a moment, then he hears Nines chastising him, some half comment that slips out from memory about not making his injury worse - but never mind that because this isn’t a work injury, it’s self-inflicted cause Connor apparently can’t _not_ make things worse.

He slams his head back against the cabinet, feeling the door shake under the pressure. There’s a brief ache in the back of his skull but it isn’t fucking enough to pull himself together. He’s just so sick of caring too much about how apathetic and useless he’s become, and he wishes it would all just stop.

He’s just… tired. There’s too many tears, too much blood, and not enough energy in the world right now.

**Author's Note:**

> [aaaand then he falls asleep against the cabinet/sliding down to the floor. just to be clear.]
> 
> SO! I’ve been reading my Reverse Roles ‘verse fic(s) aloud to my friend, and upon Connor telling Hank he’d dropped the knife, my friend said “that sounds like the sort of fake excuse one of our friends in high school would have used” (liiittle bit paraphrased :p). and so I respond ‘well but he actually honestly did drop the thing’  
> But yeah, so that brief discussion has been floating around in my head, and eventually I decided I’d already spent a whole lotta time figuring out exactly how the drop and injuries had happened, so why not just go ahead and write the darn thing aaand here it is
> 
> also, for the sake of continuity, here is my [Russian Roulette part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916965/chapters/37194731) chapter


End file.
